Whispers of Eden
by Self-san
Summary: Dark AU. Genderswap.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer**: I own nothing.**

**A/N**: This is the official rewrite of Whispers of Eden. Enjoy!

_Past_

One of the first memories Spock had was of battle.

How she managed to get away from her father she doesn't know but staring up into the wild eyes of the young sehlat as she crouched playing by the small oasis's shore she realized what life was all about. Fight or flight. Maybe in simpler terms, she was still young, but the meaning the was the same.

Though she had no words for it then; the feeling of _knowing_ that she had to reach down, knowing that she had to grasp the sharp rock in her small hands, knowing that she had to bring it up, knowing that she had to defend, to kill the beast across from her if she wanted to live was burning in her mind.

And oh, how she wanted to live.

So when the huge, densely furred animal growled at her loudly, trying to scare her away, she didn't move. It was bigger than her, faster. She would never be able to run away in time. She had to fight. Her gaze sharpened, her heart slowed, and she _felt_ the desert shift around her as one stout, clawed foot took a slow step towards her.

All the while her small, dark eyes held the softball-sized, orange gaze of the sehlat. She, even so young, would not back down.

By Surak, it was _her_ water hole and she **was** going to play there. Beast, for all that it really had been there first, be damned.

It took a step towards her and she raised her small fist, rock tight in her grasp.

It was then that she felt the fast beating heart of the sehlat, the fear that pulsed through the desert dweller's mind like it was her own. It consumed her and she knew when the sehlat was truly aware of her, watching the oval pupil contract and give as it felt her inside it.

He.

The sehlat was male. It was lonely.

Spock watched as it crept closer to her, its bearded chin dragging the rough ground and further matting it.

He crept a little closer and she could feel the muscles shifting under the skin, feel the hunger roaring in his belly, feel his want for _pack_. But he had none. He was _alone_.

She _knew_ when the want for food won out and he rose a paw to bat at her stomach. It was so fast she could barely stop it with her arm and stabbed at the glowing orange eye with her rock. She got him in the bridge of the nose, her small arm unable to reach further.

He skidded back a few steps, covering his bleeding nose. She hissed, her nerves alight with fright and wonder as he stood and stared at her, meting her eyes.

Then it clicked within her.

They had blooded each other. They had, in an instinctual way, earned the other's respect now.

That won out over hunger.

Sitting back down in the sand, Spock held her rock close, sniffing the dark blood that covered it curiously.

She didn't look up, not afraid as the sehlat approached.

He sniffed at her arm and Spock looked over, watching as he took a small lick of her vibrant, green colored arm. The scratches were deep.

Then he waffled and fell to his stomach beside her, cleaning his bloodied claws. She could feel his amusement and giggled in return.

And she started to play in the sand again, making pictures with her sharp stone and dipping her fingers in the nearby water to build small houses for her sand people.

The sehlat sat beside her, his chest rising and falling. Once in a while he would huff intentionally, blowing away her drawings in the sand.

Patiently she would begin again, frowning crossly at him when he waffled out his amusement.

It was only a few hours later, when her arm began to burn painfully as the neurotoxin held in the sehlat's claws began to wear off that she paid any mind to the near frantic voices in the distance calling her name.

Standing up she parted the tall reeds surrounding her hid-away and stepped into the cooling desert sand.

It ticked her bare feet as she walked away from her play spot, towards the familiar voices.

The sehlat followed beside her, brushing against her as they went.

Spock remembers more than anything else her father's vivid eyes, so full of _fearreliefanger _as he swept her into his embrace when she found the search party.

And the sehlat stayed with her ever since.

_Present_

Flicking out her rough tongue she pulled her split lip under and sucked the seeping green blood down her throat in a smooth move.

Her sore, bruised hips swayed a fast rhythm as she nodded her head to the music pounding through her apartment.

Her flawlessly clean carpet got another swipe as she picked up her fainting couch with one hand and worked her vacuum cleaner over the area. She kicked aside one of Polly's chew toys with her bandaged ankle and glanced over the fluffy white carpet to the sleeping sehlat that lounged in the far chair.

She dropped the couch with a loud thud and Polly's clawed feet kicked in his sleep, his large mouth opening to show massive canines long enough to protrude over his chin.

She gave a fond roll of her eye and turned off the vacuum, parking in back in the corner and turning off her stereo.

Polly huffed, blinking open his big orange eyes to watch Spock. She closed her tired eyes and ran her bandaged hand through her short hair.

A knock reverberated loudly, suddenly, through her small apartment and the thick black strands of her hair caught in the clasps holding the white strips together over her hand. She tugged to get it free as she walked to the door, snatching the spare closest phaser from behind her stereo.

Holding the weapon to her side she walked silently to her front door. Even after so long, she couldn't stop her caution. Too long had she been in real danger, too long had she lived as a warrior and a solider, not the mild mannered xenonlinguistics teacher she was now.

Her heart pounded in her chest and she wondered who the hell would be visiting her at this hour of the night. No one from her current life that was certain.

"Open up!" A familiar voice yelled through the door, pounding on it again. Instantly, her sharp mind recalled the image of the short Admiral. It was going on two years now since she had last seen him.

Spock's brow furrowed in confusion. Why would her ex-Commander want anything to do with her? She remembered vividly the icy glare she had taken when she had announced her retirement from being his right hand.

She chased off the chills that raced down her spine and suddenly she felt too exposed in her panties and undershirt. It was illogical, Archer had seen her in far less, but she still wanted to run to her bedroom and grab something to cover up it.

She beat the urge off with a stick she had crafted from years in Black Ops and made herself move forward, gun securely in her palm.

With nimble fingers she undid every other one of the six locks on her door, disabling the small plastic explosive and trip wires as she did so.

The Admiral waited with little patience, and what she could feel through the door before she set up her shields was that he was in a serious hurry.

Tightening her hand on her phaser she let the door open, stepping aside as Admiral Jonathan Archer, her ex-commander and bed partner, stormed into her humble abode after 11 months, 15 days, 21 hours, and 18 minutes after coldly dismissing her from his presence.

She relocked her door behind him as he stalked into her living room and began to pace, soundly ignoring the now awake Polly.

Archer liked dogs and after all, wasn't a sehlat a cosmic relative of his beloved canine?

Spock soundly pushed the memories of lazy mornings in bed with him, Polly taking up the foot. She remembered fleetingly how she had burned the bed when she had gotten out, hoping to never have to relieve those painful, happy memories with a man that she was so close to.

Darkly humorous she thought that the only time the man would ever be still was in death. Archer always had to be moving, even after sex. He said it helped him think. Spock gracefully refrained from quoting the statistics and likelihood of success in such an event even as his blunt fingers tapped out a design on her naked thigh.

To each his own, right?

Archer stopped pacing, rounding on her like a hurricane. She was painfully aware of his vibrating coolness as it washed over her…just like old times.

Only long practiced movements kept her from backing up from him as he almost invaded her space.

"Spock," he sounded pained as he spoke, running a hand through his errant hair.

"You were one of my best." It wasn't a question. Spock felt herself tense and her instincts made her wary, nay almost _afraid_ of what he would say next.

"I need you back."

And Spock's world felt apart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

_Past_

Taking a deep breath she centered herself in the small, strange room that she had been taken to. She remembered her father's pained, stoic face as she had been led away from before their house.

Surak, what had she done wrong _now_? She hadn't given the bullies in her class bloody noses in _weeks_ now. She had even been _meditating_ more, trying to stop her frantically running thoughts that flew at all hours of the day, convenient a time or not.

Her tan hands gripped her thin robe as she rose from her sitting position and began to pace. The thick smell of dust and disuse of the room tore the comforting desert air straight from her nose and she folded her arms protectively over her chest.

Spock couldn't hear anything either, something that discomforted her so strongly that she went to the corner, curling her knees to her chest. The heavy stone walls beside her pressed coldly into her back and the sand between her bare toes was chilled. There was no window to let in light or warmth, only the heavy door across the room, its high barred slot letting in a very dim glow for the corridor.

The room was bare for but a mat in the corner, so thin it could barely be considered a bed.

She heard a shuffle in the hallway and her watched as her door was pulled open, standing as three grown men led a single one between them.

His head covered in a mask but she could tell that he was older than her by many years.

Watching as the mask was taken off and his wild eyes were exposed it was then that Spock _knew_.

Horror bloomed in her chest and it all slid into place. Why her father had said nothing, why her grandmother had been the one to prepare her, why she was there with _him_.

She didn't know his name and she found, as the elders left the room and sealed the door behind them, as he began to shake as he walked closer to her, as the light was gone and she was alone with a _monster_; that she didn't give a shit.

_Present_

Chocking back a grunt, she pressed her hand into her forearm, _hard_. The biting sting of smoke fogged her eyes, despite her second lid, and the hot, humid air folded around her like a long forgotten lover.

Spock tried to ignore it with moderate success as she rapidly thought of the blueprints her and her team had memorized before the mission had begun.

Like a blooming flower the memories came to her and with quick elimination she picked the exit closest to them. They had to get out.

They had been told that their target had been somewhere in the complex, they were to locate and retrieve Dr. James T. Kirk, whose Anti-serum would effectively and completely neutralize all traces of the innocuous poison that all Klingon soldier weapons currently carried.

Great, wonderful. Just what the Fleet needed.

Now all she had to wonder about was why Archer had come to her for this.

Sure, it was a mission ranked above all others, and as her team was above all others in the case of location and retrieval, the mission fell to them… But she hadn't been a part of said team for almost a year and suddenly they needed her? They had been doing fine, she had made sure of it.

Beaming into the complex had been easy, highly noticeable, but easy. It had been… strange to Spock that she hadn't been attacked or approached by the enemy when entering.

Creeping along in the dark complex, she had been surprised to come across so many dead. Maybe this was why they wanted her…

The humans in the standard science/medical blues, their eyes dull and their bodies ravished by long, ragged tears of violent assault, had been surprising.

She hadn't been informed as to possible dead. Dammit.

Stopping briefly, she turned one of the dead officers on their back. The male's face was whole and untouched except for the splattering of blood. His neck and chest however…

Dipping a gloved fingers into the exposed bowl of the man's chest, she carefully pushed aside the snapped toothpick like ribs and found that the inside organs appeared black and twisted as they interwove.

Sliding her fingers across the split lung, she pushed them through the tear of the gray, deformed organ. Bringing her hand back up, she delicately sniffed the almost coagulated blood that blended seamlessly into her black glove. The smell of rotting meat met her highly attuned olfactory sense and she realized that she didn't know what poison it was that had killed the man, of if it even was poison.

She narrowed her eyes. So this was why Archer had picked her. She always had been a bit of a wild hat when dealing with the unknown. And she was much, much better at it then any of her old teammates.

Cursing quietly she scrapped the gunk off of her hand and proceeded to the alien lying next to the human. Contusions decorated his skull and chest in a gross parody of what Spock knew to be coming of age tattoos. Probing the bruised flesh she frowned when feeling what appeared to be a lack of bone.

Feeling again, she discerned that yes, the back of the cranial bone was there, but it was fractured into such tiny pieces that it pierced the brain and left the appearance of none under the skin.

He had not died of the same thing as the human had. It set Spock on edge.

Standing she proceeded forward, stepping over similarly injured humans and aliens alike, she found that it appeared that whoever had taken the weapon to swing at the some of the dead had been determined to kill, mutilation merely being an effect.

Walking quietly, she had been peering around a corner when she smelt the fire start. Snapping on her respirator she had continued her search of the doctor.

The fire had been unplanned, but that was what you came to expect with the job and she had long since stopped panicking. Spock figured that the assailants' plan hadn't gone as they wished and seeing as the floors of the labs were covered in medical personnel and not, she had to figure that someone on base had weapons training… or was blitzing. But depending on the subject's danger trigger, she determined that she would be unable to safely rely on their help in the matter of locating one James T. Kirk.

She was slightly ashamed to admit, but the fact that the fellow insurgent could be the doctor himself had not occurred to her. The doctor's file had not hinted or nay, even stated that Dr. Kirk could possibly have even the minimum amount of combat training.

As such, she was rightfully shocked to enter a room and see what she had.

The room stank with the smell of death, sex, blood, and other, thicker things. The heat of the fire was already reaching the room, flames licked against the far door. Smoke twisted and writhed along the bloodstained floor and she suddenly didn't care to know what was going on in the complex.

No, better her be the mindless dog and do her master's bidding. Right then she longed for her large classroom, her attentive students. She did not want to be in this tomb, ready to kill to save a single man.

Keeping to the shadows she watched as a man fitting the description of Dr. Kirk raising a bar and bringing it down on a alien's skull.

By then, she had almost determined that the doctor was dead, and not in fact in the compound at all. She was certainly surprised as she stood and watched the doctor repeatedly bring the bar down on the alien's head and chest.

Was the man mad? She worried. If he was and resisted her assistance she would have to take him out of the picture. That, she realized as she watched him beat a living being to death, would be a mite difficult.

She watched as his chest heaved and sweat coated his brow. His breath wheezed between his lips and she raised her gun, aligning it with his head as she cleared her throat.

He spun, but she kept a steady bead on him as he brought his weapon up to defend. His blue eyes widened and he froze when he saw the gun.

"Are you Dr. James T. Kirk?"

He didn't respond.

"You will answer me," she said sternly, already working out a way to get him unconscious if she needed to.

"Are you or are you not Dr. James T. Kirk?" Spock asked one more time, ready to shot.

"I am," he said, his voice raspy and his body tense.

"I am Gray Hound, sent by Star Fleet for your retrieval. Please drop your weapon and we will proceed to evacuate," she spoke coldly and clearly as she kept her gun steady. The respirator barely made a sound.

There was a long moment where their eyes met before he lay his makeshift bat on the floor and looked at her.

She holstered her gun, grateful that she didn't have to drag his body through the burning complex. Because her ankle was already starting to ache from the weight of her equipment, joining her wrist and hips.

"Please, sir, if you'll follow me."

He grabbed a bag from the corner and followed her out the door, breaking into a run to keep up. She ignored the pain and pushed on and soon they were close to an exit.

In the hallway the smoke was worse though, and she listened to his cough as she made a quick decision to remove her respirator and press it over his face.

It sealed with a near silent suck and she watched as he took a breath of clean oxygen and fidgeted with the bag over his shoulder.

"What took you guys so long?" he asked as they again jogged down a hallway.

"We-"

With no warning she barely ducked as a fist came flying around the corner.

The second fist smacked her in the mouth, breaking her already split lip under the thin black face mask, and she grunted as she kicked up her heel into the man's nose.

With a wet crunch she watched dispassionately as his eyes rolled into his skull.

She had kicked his nose into his brain.

Spinning, she grabbed the doctor and continued on, ready to get out of this new hell.

As they passed through the hallways she ruthlessly took out any and all in their way.

One managed to slash her arm and she put pressure on it as she planned their way to freedom.

So much she had to do, and so little time to do it.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_Past_

His name was Stonn and she never wanted to see him again.

She wanted to hiss, bite, scream, rage at him for the unfairness of it all.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it. It wasn't his fault, or so she told herself as he pounded into her, the sand floor of their cell biting into her bare skin.

One of the only things she had done for him was remove her robe, opening her trembling self for him. Even as she went through the motion, banked his fire she knew that she did not want a husband.

She did not want to have intercourse with a man so older than her.

She raised her hands to her face, scrubbing harder with her cloth as she shivered under the cold water.

Her husband was only rooms away but she couldn't bring herself to even look at him, let alone go to him for comfort. He was as uncomfortable as her anyway, watching her with sad eyes as she went about making their home among the jutting rocks of Vulcan comfortable.

Covering her mouth she closed her eyes and brought up a familiar sharp rock.

She fisted her long, flowing hair with a hand and started to hack.

And as her locks lay in the bottom of the expensive, water shower, she felt just a small, small bit better.

And that would have to do for now.

_Present_

Hissing through her teeth she tried not to fight the hand imposing itself on her neck, forcing it forward to touch her chest. Prick after prick the hypos were released into her bloodstream.

Standard de-tox for after mission, but she still found that she hated it. Time did not dull the sensation.

It was annoying, it took up too much of her time, and at the rate that the asshole doctor was going, she might actually have bruises on her neck. Her. What a fucking bastard.

It seemed like the damn things just kept coming, but Spock knew that it was just her pain receptors going into overdrive. Rolling her hurt bottom lip under she sank her teeth in until she was just over that side of pain.

As another hypo was shot into her neck she couldn't help the all-over shudder she gave as the needle was removed.

Archer owed her.

The hand removed itself and she slowly raised her head. Probing her neck she determined that there was a lot of soreness but she couldn't tell if it would bruise or not.

Turning where she sat on the med-bed, she watched the doctor.

His brow was furrowed, hazel eyes staring intently at the padd he held between his large hands. Bringing a hand up, she watched as he carded it through his dark hair. He looked haggard, handsome but haggard.

"Well doctor, am I clear for duty?" she asked as she leaned back on her hands so she was partially reclining.

Most of her uniform was trashed, but she'd managed to keep her pants. Lovely, expensive, combat pants that they were. Truthfully, Spock was just glad that they still fit after so long not wearing them.

So she was sitting there, no gloves, no neck guard, no armor, no shoes and socks, no bra, and no shirt.

Well, her shirt anyway; they had given her one of those flimsy gown things to cover her chest.

Swinging her feet she kept her face clear and pleasant when he lifted his head to glare at her.

"I suppose ya are." His voice rumbled adown straight to her hips and she slid off of the bed. Brushing at her remaining clothing she turned to walk away when his voice stopped her.

"I, well, dammit, just…thanks." He sounded flustered and annoyed.

Spock turned, glad that she had kept her face on.

"To what do you speak of, doctor?" she asked plainly. She couldn't recall doing anything praise worthy for this man. He was the one to patch her up, not the other way around.

"You didn't give up, even when the fire started. You still looked for Jim and you still got yourselves out relatively alive." He scrubbed a hand over his face, and it occurred to her why he looked so worn.

"Dr. James T. Kirk is your friend." She stated it even as she felt her mask slip some into her customary blankness.

She felt the tendrils of back guilt wind their way around her heart. They chocked her.

"Yeah, Jim and I, we go way back. He's like family. You saved him, and that's worth your fucking weight in gold to me. I just wanted to say thanks."

He was staring at her, his eyes locking with hers, and she couldn't really stand it, not when she hadn't done anything so noble. Her gown found its way through her fingers and she pushed it away.

Spock was a fucking coward. A dog, and she didn't deserve any thanks for saving her own ass, especially from this man.

"Your thanks is unnecessary, doctor, I was merely doing my job and as such-"

"Leonard McCoy," he interrupted her, his voice its gruff growl.

"Excuse me?" she asked as she stared at him, puzzled by the sudden turn in the conversation.

"My name is Leonard McCoy, and if you ever need patched up, well, I, I'll do it for you. It's the least I can do for you saving Jim." He nodded his head as though that was it, the conversation was over.

She didn't have time to tell him that there was no way in fucking hell that she would want to do anything like she had again. Maybe it was for the best that he left Spock staring at his back, wondering what, exactly, she had missed.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_Past_

Groaning loudly she burrowed deeper into her soft pillows and warm blankets.

The bandages wrapping around her thigh pulled tightly against her stretching and she quickly relaxed when the muscle felt like it would begin to spasm.

Taking a deep breath she pulled the blankets over her head and closed her eyes, ready to sleep.

Surak, that last mission had been the third level of hell.

Bringing up her cold hands she breath on them, trying to get them warm.

When she was gone like she had been, for weeks at a time, her apartment automatically went to average temperature.

Surak forbid that it be her average temperature. No, it had to be human temperature.

Covering her cold nose she counted down the minutes till her room would be warm enough for her to go to sleep.

She was so tired.

Rubbing her eyes she felt her second eyelids stick to her eyes from the cold. Her left socket throbbed warningly and she gave a small shriek when she accidentally stabbed it when a huge weight landed next to her.

Her blankets wrapped around her head as they were pulled sideways and she fought her way free, gasping for air and covering her eye. Shit it hurt.

"Fuck Polly!" Spock screamed when her head surfaced. Staring with one eye into the orange eyes of the mountainous sehlat laying beside her Polly panted hot breath into her face.

Polly waffled apologetically, gently pushing his cold nose into her cheek.

She gave a deep breath and flopped back onto the bed, probing her eye. She blinked away tears. It was a relief to find that her maxilla had not been fractured again.

"You alright?" Archer asked as his slipped beneath the blankets behind her.

She mumbled out an answer as she turned to face her commander, smiling into the kiss he pressed to her lips.

Oh yes, she was alright.

_Present_

"Hey!"

His yell was loud, and she tilted her head to the side but continued to read from her padd. She wondered who this idiot was trying to get.

"Hey!"

The voice was right next to her and she raised her eyes and saw sunlight. She blinked slowly as she waited for her brain to catch up- ah! There it was. She scanned man standing in front of her and oh. It wasn't sunlight, it was his hair. Raising a hand to shield her eyes she let her sunglasses fall down her nose.

Blue eyes. Blue shirt. Blonde hair. Big smile. Shit.

"May I help you, sir?" Spock asked, coloring over her dread with amusement.

She could not believe how persistent Dr. James T. Kirk was.

She had been trying to avoid him for weeks after Leonard McCoy had given his thanks, fearful that James T. Kirk would do the same. Surak above, like she wasn't guilty enough over it all.

His chest was rapidly moving from his large intakes of breath and she saw a bead of sweat roll from his temple. It made her realize that it was, for a human, hot out.

She was sitting directly beneath the sun and she was enjoying it immensely.

She only had sunglasses on to help with the glare from the padd screen.

Glancing down, she noticed that the program she was in had ended and she closed it down and turned off the padd all together.

"Here," he said as he threw a small orange sphere at her.

Without though or hesitation she caught it mid-air, slingshot her arm back, and threw it back, hard.

It smacked his skull and with a surprised yelp he tripped backwards onto his butt, his long legs tangling.

Dropping her padd she scrambled over to him on hands and knees.

She hadn't meant to throw it back. She knew that she'd maintain the fact that it looked like a Zepher Spore Bomb if asked.

She felt her cheeks heat as she opened his eyes and watched carefully as his pupils dilated. She let out a sigh of relief as they moved properly and he let out a low groan.

As she removed her hands from his face and sat back on her heels she sorted through the, .

So he had been testing her. Not surprising. She'd had her cloth mask on the entirety of her time with him. McCoy had seen her face, but he was held under oath and couldn't have told James T. Kirk.

She felt astounded admiration at his deductive abilities. The work to single her out must have been enormous.

"Nice arm," he croaked as he squinted up at her from where he lay on the warm, grass covered ground.

She gave him a small smile as she leant over and plucked the orange fucking-spore-bomb-look-alike off of the ground. She blinked wonderingly at what appeared to be a small earth fruit.

Sniffing it she watched as he got up and sat next to her. The citrus smell was pleasant and she noted to perhaps get some detergent that smelled as such.

He was still squinting and she recalled the rate of blindness of light-eyed individuals. Grabbing her sun glasses from their perch on her nose, she held them out as she plunked down, fruit still in hand.

She figured that resistance was futile with this Dr. James T. Kirk.

So she would… indulge him. For now.

He looked bewildered but placed them on his face. The lines between his brows lessened and she knew that he had needed them.

"So, ah, I think introductions are in order." He scratched at the back of his head.

She noticed that his hair glinted in the sun and that his hand wasn't all that calloused.

Not like hers, anyway.

"I'm Jim," he stated plainly and she regretted giving him those shades because, fuck, she couldn't read him and maybe his eyes would help? So what if he went blind because of those pretty baby-blues? Wasn't her fucking problem.

Frowning she gave her formal drivel.

"I am Commander Spock, what can I help you with Dr. Kirk?" She walked into the trap waiting for her, a response on the tip of her tongue.

"So you do know me! I just wanted to say thank you for the rescue-" He sounded excited and she almost hated to bust his bubble. Almost.

"I'm afraid that I do not know what you speak of. I merely pieced together your identity by your appearance and your reputation, doctor." As she spoke she got to her feet, leaving him rushing to get to his.

"Though I will recommend that you do not participate in throwing fruit at veteran Star Fleet operative. As you may wind up injured or worse. Oh, and thank you for the tangerine. Good day, doctor," she spoke casually as she walked away, the sun warm on her black clothing and the tangerine cool between her fingers.

He didn't follow.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

_Past_

When she decided that she had had enough, she was on the edge of her sanity.

Stonn wouldn't stop calling her to check in and while she cared for him, she was beginning to hate him all over again.

He didn't know Starfleet, not like Spock. He didn't know about the assassinations, backstabbings, and mudslinging-bitch fits that Starfleet had the honor of saying they started, and then promptly finished, usually with a new ruler on whatever throne.

He didn't know what she did.

He didn't know that she had, in fact, started quiet a few revolutions, coups, murders, and…genocides. It was something that she shared with her team only and while it was a small comfort it wasn't enough.

She didn't want any more secrets.

Staring solemnly at the single picture she had of her, her husband, and her parents she traced a finger down the solemn face of Stonn. He could never know.

He wasn't like Archer, who knew her as a target, a fellow soldier, a wife. No, he didn't know about Archer, even if Archer knew about him. And she was going to keep it that way.

But she couldn't go on like she was. She had to re-enlist in Starfleet.

Taking all of the appropriate fitness and mental tests, she dropped her position in Unit 12.

Her record with Starfleet was a golden, glistening thing, and she was quickly accepted as an Instructor with no fuss whatsoever.

Stonn approved, she talked to her parents more often, and she started to lead a fair life.

And if she had nightmares of the green eyes of a certain, so familiar Admiral, she didn't say anything.

Because she was Spock and Grey Hound…

That bitch was _dead_.

_Present_

Breathing heavily through her mouth, she clutched at her stomach. Her other hand felt raw, but she still tried to cling to the rough stonework of the alleyway. She clenched her eyes shut as hard as she could. Her head hurt so much.

Why was she so weak as to fall to Archer's needs like this? Hadn't she said that she didn't want to go out again? That her retirement was still in effect?

Why did none of it seem to matter when faced with the face that had once made her so weak?

Opening her mouth she had to just kinda push with her tongue at the blood that filled in her mouth like it was a cup. She couldn't spit on account that every time she even thought to move her jaw, she thought she might die.

Hearing the blood splash on the pavement was oddly comforting without her mask to impede the sound. That whoosh, drip, splat was something she'd listened to often.

Letting her body sag against the wall some she was careful not to jar her opposite shoulder. She hurt just about everywhere and she couldn't think.

Squinting her eyes she limped and shuffled towards the mouth of the alley. The glaring light of the lamppost hurt her sensitive eyes and ruined her night vision.

She hissed a curse and took her hand from her side long enough to aim her gun and shoot the motherfucking thing to hell.

It went out with a spark of glowing embers falling to the ground below and she felt immense satisfaction at the fact that it now felt like she did. Crappy, pissed, and ruined beyond belief. Fucking thing, she had shown it what you get when you fucked with her.

The dark helped some with her sudden angry mood as she tried to calm down and think.

She was tired. Bone achingly tired.

She needed to get patched up before her much wanted nap turned into a dirt nap.

Ignoring the warm blood running down her thigh she pressed as hard as she could on her side without screwing her ribs. They, thankfully, weren't broken.

Most bruised, some fractured, but none broken.

Thank Surak for small gifts.

Unable to breath through her nose, no matter that she'd fixed it on the way back, she had to let her eyes adjust some before she began scanning the dorm key posted on the front of the building. It wasn't the first time she had thanked Vulcan sight.

Top floor, last door, room 1040. Dr. Leonard McCoy, just the man she needed. He had said that he'd patch her up, hadn't he? Oh well. If not…well, that's what Wills were good for. Made sure her mom got everything.

Even as injured as she was, she made little sound as she picked the scan lock with a needle and crept up the stairs.

At the top, she let herself bend some and heave in the oxygen. She didn't touch the walls though, she wasn't sure if her hands were bleeding or not. She couldn't leave evidence. None would know of her trip here. No one would find a trace.

Shifting upright she began her awkward shuffle down the dark hall. When she reached the door she needed, she pulled out another needle of a large size and began picking the door lock. The door opened with a swish and she stepped inside and closed it as she closed her eyes and flicked on the light. There were muffled thumps and she opened her fairly adjusted eyes to watch as two men rolled out of a bed across the room.

She cursed herself when she realized who the second person was. The Annoyance. Shit. The directory, nor her previous research had indicated that the good Dr. had any roommates… or lovers for that matter. She made a small note to add it to the information.

She did an odd impression of clearing her voice without moving her jaw. It was a wet, unpleasant sound and she winced in her head even as two pairs of eyes settled on her. She let herself lean against the wall. She'd wash it herself later if either had a problem with it, but right now, she was just tired.

She took little notice of Dr. McCoy's nudity as a vile curse flew from his lips and he rushed over to her. James T. Kirk was not far behind, but he stumbled for a moment and pulled a pair of neglected shorts off of the ground first.

It amused her and she wondered if he had been raised in such a manor or if he thought that she hadn't seen everything he, as a man, had to offer her. With that thought bouncing in her head, she let herself be led to sit in a chair. It was hard, steel or treated wood- she couldn't tell, and it pressed against her back in a familiar manner.

She didn't slump in it, it hurt to sit, but Spock allowed herself to perch on it as well as she could without pain. It didn't really work and she blinked some when James T. Kirk flashed a light in her eye, her second lid covering her delicate optical. He made an annoyed sound and asked her if she could please, not do that, thank you.

She just stared at him. It occurred to her that Dr. Leonard McCoy was no longer in the room with them. She retracted that internal statement when he walked, covered in a pair of cutoffs, back into the room carrying a tricorder.

Like James T. Kirk, he knelt before her and began running the prob in the air above her skin. She was startled however, the fog lifting of a moment, when James T. Kirk carefully pressed two fingers over her wrist.

It was close enough to her main psy-points and her barriers let down enough that she caught the feelings of concern, anger, and what not that he was feeling for her.

She tried to strengthen her barriers and must have missed something because the next thing she knew was Leonard McCoy's worried voice instructing Kirk.

"Dammit! Keep her with us Jim!"

"Fuck, Bones, easier said than done!" His voice conveyed his worry and she prying her suddenly heavy lids open to look at him.

His brows were furrowed and a frown pulled at his lips. Again. It seemed like each and every time they interacted, he frowned at some point. Strange. Was she really that horrible, she wondered.

Fuzzy and dropping she just tried to listen to them talk. Leonard McCoy was saying something; listing her injuries maybe? And Kirk was babbling to her about how the Academy was hell on Science Majors and how was her time there? Was it nice?

She lost it for what seemed like only a second and came back to a punch in the face and a searing pain in her side. After a moment she realized that, no, she wasn't being attacked, but they were double teaming on her to get her fixed quicker. That that punch was Kirk setting her jaw and the side was McCoy cleaning and bandaging it. But, fuck, did it hurt.

She moaned some and Kirk was still talking to her. Damn that man, but he was persistent.

Then Kirk was cradling her head, his big fucking baby blues looking so pathetic and upset and she…

She couldn't find it in herself to be upset that he was there anymore.

Maybe he wouldn't turn out to be such an Annoyance after all.

She was aware throughout the entire process of fixing her.

Saying that it hurt would be a massive understatement. Truly, it would.

She passed it all in a fog, aware enough to feel and understand, but not enough to really think about what was going on. She vaguely felt the hours pass and wondered at the two men's talents that it didn't take longer; she knew that she was in a wretched state.

When she finally came out of it enough to start thinking again, they were done, and she felt sleep like a metal beast riding her body.

However training long ingrained in her subconscious couldn't heed her body's rising demands.

Paranoia was a good friend for the likes of Spock.

Blinking her opaque second lid open, she brought up a no longer mangled hand and wiped at the slowly tracking tears from her cheek, all caused by the bright light above her.

From a first glance she noted how thick curtains blocked a golden glow; only a small line appearing under the drapes.

She was also alone in the room. Her sensitive ears picked up on a low conversation and the sound of rushing water. Sitting up carefully she swung her legs off of the bed. She tried not to think about how exactly she was on the said bed.

She still hurt everywhere, but as she ignored it and kept her body relaxed, it wasn't all that bad. She could deal.

She pushed all thoughts of sleep to the back of her mind, along with meditation, food, water, and the bathroom. She locked the key and threw it away; she reassured herself that she would come back to them, just not right now.

Flicking the med light off the room was incased in shadows.

Standing she strode over to the window. Her hair felt cool as it whispered over her ears and her fingers could feel the heat of the sun as she played them over the thick fabric.

Their groves caught on the fabric and she gently extracted them and folded the long appendages into a fist, marveling at the minimal amount of green and neon orange bruising that decorated the previously twisted and mangled hand.

Leaning into the heated curtain she took note of the easy rotation of ankle, shoulder, wrist and the tenderness, but painlessness, of hand, side, face, and leg. She hesitantly drew a large breath, holding it, and then releasing it slowly. General soreness, minimal pain of prolonged inhalation, but otherwise… highly manageable.

She was astounded. Yes, she'd need a pillow to stabilize her ribs should she need to sneeze, but she estimated such a need to be gone within the day.

Fascinating.

Grabbing a pillow off of the nearby chair, she softly pressed it into her breast. Just in case, one never really could be prepared for the inevit-

With a snap, what she assumed to be the bathroom door flew open.

It hit the wall behind it and she drooped from her stance.

Judging from the look of near panic in the blue eyes of Dr. Kirk, she theorized that they had realized her absence from her spot. Deliberately shifting against the fabric on the window, she watched as a curse flew forth from Dr. McCoy's mouth and Dr. Kirk's shoulder slump in relief.

She played with the tassels of the throw pillow as she looked them over.

McCoy was wearing shorts, Kirk was now in boxers, and both of them looked haggard. McCoy also looked angry.

Holding the pillow securely to her, she stood straighter as McCoy swore at her soundly, his long strides taking him across the room to her position.

"Damnit! What the fucking hell where you bloody thinking? Getting off of the bed! We weren't even done with our-"

"Doctor," she cut him off abruptly, "While it is entirely correct to assume that I am most grateful for your help in medicating me, do not assume you know what I am thinking. I got off of the bed for good reason. Thanks to you my body is on its way to optimum working order. I am healed. You have healed me. I thank you for both for your help, but I feel I must leave as soon as possible."

She stood there, toe to toe with him, her eyes soundly holding his. She watched as they darkened and his scowl became more pronounced.

"Now look here, you green-blooded hobgoblin, who do you think you are? Putting yourself into our hands and then just deciding to leave! You came to us, Gray Hound, not the other way around, so don't you go talking like you're the doctor here because you're not!"

He snarled at her, his accent was thickening with every word and she watched despondently as Kirk resolutely put himself between them.

"Now look, let us just check you over. You can wash up, eat, and then leave. We won't keep you here against your will, but please, just- just take our advice, alright? We haven't hurt you so far."

His voice was calm, soothing, and slightly cajoling. She closed her eyes and shook her head in defeat. He was correct.

As she put the pillow back into its proper place her ribs protested. She paid no mind and walked back to the bed. It was rather filthy, covered in a layer of what she could smell to be blood, sweat, dead flesh, and antiseptic. Perching primly on the edge she rested her hands on her knees.

McCoy and Kirk conducted the examination. Quite and attentive they poked and probed her until she wanted to rip their fucking heads off and-

"Alright, you can go clean up now," Kirk proclaimed happily as he backed away from her.

She rose, not as fluid as normal, she noticed, but still smoothly. Slowly she pulled the remains of her uniform on and walked to the front door.

She stopped, her hand on the opening pad.

"I owe you guys one," she said. And then she disappeared into the light of the dawn.


End file.
